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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920467">Routine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualcastle/pseuds/casualcastle'>casualcastle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Anxiety, Isolation, Jon is tired and confused, M/M, Martin is frustrated, Mid/Late Season 1, Same story two POVs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:53:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,567</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920467</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualcastle/pseuds/casualcastle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from mid/late season 1 in which Jon accidentally sees something Martin really doesn’t want him to.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Routine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just as a disclaimer, while I did tag Martin/Jon this is not really a romantic fic. It’s an exploration of a scene that would take place in season 1 where Jon accidentally sees Martin at a very vulnerable moment. I wanted to determine how they’d each handle the situation respectively so the story in this fic is told twice: once from Jon’s POV and once from Martin’s POV.</p>
<p>This is my first endeavor into Magpod fic writing and I already have lots of ideas for other Jmart fics, so I hope you guys enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>How did it come to this </em>Jon thinks miserably as he stares at the piles of recorded statements on his desk and hopes that magically some string of fate or divine intervention will connect them in his mind.</p>
<p>Ever since Martin came back from his forced apartment quarantine it has become more and more difficult for Jon to take his work at face value. He knew he couldn’t feign ignorance forever, he just didn’t think he’d be having to play detective so soon, and the more he looks back at the statements the less he understands. He leans back in his chair and groans, rubbing his eyes and running his hands down his face, trying desperately to wake himself up.</p>
<p>He stays late at the archives often, even spending the night on occasion, but since Martin started staying there two months ago he’s been more careful not to be seen. As much as Jon knows it doesn’t really matter if Martin sees him or not he also doesn’t need anyone to worry about him, and considering Martin seems to want to add that to his job description Jon is determined to give him as few reasons as possible to do so.</p>
<p>Jon worries sometimes himself, mostly that Martin’s own unexplainable emotional attachment to this job will inhibit his work efficiency. Not to mention the strain that living in the archives has put on him, and despite what he says Jon knows it’s not normal to have to take shelter in the basement of an academic institute because your apartment is infested with paranormal worms.</p>
<p>After some consideration Jon decides he really, really needs a coffee right about now. His third cup of the night, which isn’t uncommon for him, but he tries to make them after he knows Martin is asleep. It’s not so much that he doesn’t want to hurt his feelings, but more that he doesn’t want to have that conversation in the first place. Besides, it feels like routine, Martin bringing him black tea with a splash of cream at 12pm on the dot every day, and he can’t help but take comfort in the little things that aren’t constantly shifting and changing around him. No reason to ruin something so harmless.</p>
<p>He gets up from his chair, cracking his back when he does so and making a satisfying popping sound he associates with being stuck in his office for far too long. Peeking out into the hallway he checks the door to the room where Martin’s made his temporary living arrangements. It’s dark and the door is closed, so Jon quietly makes his way over to the break room on the other side of the archives.</p>
<p>As he does so he notices almost immediately a faint melodic sound coming from the direction he’s heading. He wonders if someone left the radio on, or maybe it turned itself on (that happens from time to time). It’s not until he gets within sight of the closed door that he hears it: someone singing, or maybe just talking, or both.</p>
<p>It’s hard to tell exactly, but Jon does know <em> who </em>it is. He wonders for a moment if he should just forget it, go back to his own office and pretend he didn’t hear anything. Unfortunately his curiosity wins, and, approaching the door, he begins to make out the words just as Martin raises his voice:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> My thunder shook him downnn </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> My thunder came and shook him down </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It seems like he’s singing over an instrumental, maybe a karaoke version of a song? Jon’s never heard it so he’d be hard pressed to say whether Martin was making the lyrics up or not. He’s close enough to the door now that he can peek in through the small rectangular window, and what he sees isn’t exactly what he’d expected.</p>
<p>Martin is standing near the back of the room facing the counter on the right wall, so Jon can only see his profile. He’s got on an oversized grey hoodie, a stark contrast to his usual sweater/ button up combo. He’s definitely the one singing, holding a pen in his left hand and wielding it like a microphone, face red from yelling and voice starting to sound a bit hoarse. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> That girl is gone but I </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> That girl is gone but I still try </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> I think it’s over now  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> The bullet hit but maybe not </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He has his eyes shut tight, and Jon can’t tell from where he’s standing but he thinks there’s a glistening at the outer corner of his eye, though it might just be the glare from his glasses. He spins around, taking a couple of steps back, eyes still closed. Jon watches him with a mixture of fascination and utter confusion. He’s never seen Martin like this of course, and he can’t help but feel like he’s definitely not supposed to be here. He doesn’t know what possesses him to turn the knob but as soon as he does he knows it was a mistake.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> I feel so Fucking Numb </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> It hits my head and I feel numb </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martin still doesn’t seem to notice when Jon cracks the door open, just continues on, voice now cracking and raspy:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> My bodyyyys looking wrongggggg! </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> My bodyyyys looking wrongggggg! </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> MY BODYYYYS LOOKING WRONGGGGG- </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Martin?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His eyes fly open and he screams, high-pitched and absolutely terrified, throwing the pen he’d been using at the door reflexively and nearly taking Jon’s right eye out. He runs to turn off the backtrack he’d been singing (yelling?) to, “Martin! It’s me! It’s just me!” Jon puts his hands up in surrender, trying to appear as non threatening as possible.</p>
<p>Martin gives him a look of such unadulterated horror you’d think Jane Prentiss had finally decided to attack the archives, “WHY ARE Y-WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? I THOUGHT YOU’D LEFT- OH GOD.” He turns away from Jon quickly, wiping his face and pushing his glasses up in the process. He keeps his hand partially covering his mouth and eyes, ears a bright cherry red, “I-I’m sorry! Oh god I really thought you’d left and I was just-”</p>
<p>Jon lowers his hands, “It’s 4:15. I assumed you’d be...asleep by now.”</p>
<p>“Yeah well I could say the same for you, couldn’t I?! But here we both are so,” Martin turns around, arms crossed over his chest and looking like he’d bolt for the door if Jon wasn’t blocking the exit.</p>
<p>They stand like that for a few long seconds, Martin wide eyed and red all the way down to his neck with embarrassment and Jon too shocked to do anything but stare at him. He wonders if there’s anything right he could say, but mostly he just desperately wants this situation to be over so he can make his coffee.</p>
<p>Something strikes him then, and it stops him from moving out of the way. Jon actually absorbs what he’s seeing and he realizes Martin doesn’t look like he’s slept in… well, ever. His eyes are bloodshot and the circles under them could be mistaken for bruises. If his arms weren’t crossed his shaky hands would be far more obvious, but they’re currently gripping the fabric around his biceps tightly. Has he looked like this forever, or just since he started living in the archives? Does he usually hide it, or did Jon just never notice?</p>
<p>Martin shakes his head eventually, looking at the floor and letting out a breath. His voice sounds so strained that if Jon hadn’t seen him just now he’d have thought he’d been sobbing, “Look, I’m-I’m really tired so I’m just gonna go-”</p>
<p>“You were in the middle of making tea, Martin,” Jon says blandly, pointing to the cup of boiling water and tea bag sitting on the table between them. It feels like a stupid thing to point out, given the situation, but Martin ignores him and walks towards the door, opening it wider so he can get past. </p>
<p>“You can have it.” He says absently.</p>
<p>Before Jon can say anything else Martin is already past an aisle of statements, and just like that he’s out of sight. Jon stares after him, and he swears he can hear a quiet, frustrated whine from across the archives just before the opening and closing of a door. A tense silence fills the space once again.</p>
<p>Jon sighs, really not sure what to make of the past few minutes. He looks at the abandoned tea on the table, then at the coffee maker, then at the table again. He walks over to it, removing the teabag from it’s paper container and slipping it into the steaming mug.</p>
<p>He’d asked Martin plenty of times whether or not he was comfortable staying at the archives, and everytime Martin gave him the same smile and nod, saying it wasn’t so bad, and that actually it’s pretty peaceful at night. Jon never bought the second claim, but he also didn’t think it was really taking that big a toll on him.</p>
<p><em> Maybe this is just how he processes things </em> Jon thinks, but even as he does so he knows it’s ignorant of him. He considers going and apologizing but quickly dismisses the thought, imagining if their roles were reversed. It’s probably best if he just forgets about it. That would be the best for both of them.</p>
<p>Jon removes the tea bag, tossing it in the bin, and blows on the liquid subconsciously before taking a sip. It’s terrible, and not in the way that the tea Martin makes is terrible. He didn’t put any cream in it, didn’t think to, and only steeped it for 30 seconds or so. It’s really just hot water, and Jon suddenly wishes he’d let Martin finish making it before he walked in.</p>
<p>He takes the mug over to the sink and pours it out, then begins to fill it with fresh water to put in the coffee maker.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Martin doesn’t bring him tea the next day, or the day after. He asks Tim if he’s seen Martin around, and he tells him he’d been where Jon was standing only 5 minutes before. Jon frowns, and wanders back to his office. For being in such close proximity to each other nearly everyday, Martin is surprisingly good at making himself invisible.</p>
<p>He makes it back to his office, closing the door and sitting down with a thud. He looks at the clock: <em> 11:30 </em>. He sighs, then pulls out a new statement that Sasha brought him, hoping he’ll get a knock on his door in a half hour. Hoping, pathetically, that he didn’t just ruin the only real routine, real comfort, he’s had in years.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>____________________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>____________________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Martin rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. The once white tiles have yellowed with age and water damage, giving the whole archive a slightly musty smell. He groans, covering his face with his hands, and peeks through his fingers at the clock on the wall: <em> 3:30 </em>. He slaps his cheeks a few times and sits up from the couch with a bit of effort. It’s definitely not a couch that’s meant to be slept on, he can feel the frame of it through the cushions every night and the wood is starting to poke through in some spots, but it’s better than the floor. </p>
<p>Definitely better than his apartment.</p>
<p>He stares across the room at the closed door that leads to the rest of the archive, eyes unfocused from lack of proper sleep. There are no windows in the interior room save a small rectangular one on the door which Martin covered with a piece of black construction paper the day he moved in. There’s a mass of old roughly tied together towels shoved under the door which he moves and replaces each time he enters or leaves. The room is completely airtight, yet here he is sitting and staring at the exit, waiting for something to happen, unblinking.</p>
<p>More than anything else what keeps him awake isn’t the couch, or the cold of the poorly insulated space, but the waiting. It’s the same reason he couldn’t sleep in his apartment, it’s the feeling he gets every time he closes his eyes for too long, or when he’s too still. It’s the crawling, squirming, writhing that overtakes his extremities and, if he ignores it, his torso and up onto his neck. He’s tried not to let it get to him, to not “let the fear win”, but there’s a difference between something in your head and something on your body and in your bones.</p>
<p>Realistically he should be perfectly safe here. There are absolutely no holes, gaps, or other openings that could invite any creatures inside, but he knows. The horrible, upsetting truth that it really doesn’t matter, and all the things he does to prepare are only for his own peace of mind or lack thereof. If they really wanted to, the worms could come in whenever they wanted. Jane could attack them whenever she wanted. That’s the knowledge that he holds deep in his chest, what keeps him awake at night and just barely so during the day. He resents that helpless feeling of being at the whim of some other beings plans. The feeling that his free will, or at least the illusion of it, has been stripped from him and he’s left to scour this empty basement for any fleeting sense of security he can find.</p>
<p>He sighs, deep and resigned, hanging his head below his shoulders. After a few minutes he finally gets up and walks over to the door, pushing the towels out of the way and balling them up in the corner. He reaches his right hand for the door handle and realizes that he’s still holding the corkscrew in his left. He looks at it for a moment, then sets it on a stack of boxes he’s been using as a table, replacing it with his glasses. Not like it would be useful to him if something happened anyway, what with him being completely alone here in the middle of the night. Martin turns and heads out the door, making sure it firmly closes behind him.</p>
<p>He’d checked Jon’s office around midnight to make sure he wasn’t staying late, but as he makes his way to the break room he double checks that the lights are still off. He lets out a breath he’d been holding, relieved to see the room dark and unoccupied. Silently wandering his way to the other side of the archives, he reflects that somehow the least horrible part of this whole situation is the emptiness of the space. He’s never minded it, never minded his independence or a lack of company. It’s actually quite comforting to know you’re alone, and even though he can’t vouch for the absence of supernatural entities he can safely determine that his coworkers and boss are certainly not here at 4am on a Wednesday. </p>
<p>He puts his glasses on while he walks, pulling himself out of blurry liminal space as the break room door comes into focus. Walking up to it he peers in through the small window to triple check that no one is quietly still working or eating in there. It’s a silly thing to be paranoid about and far too late as it is for anyone to still be here; he checks anyways. No one. He smiles to himself as he turns the doorknob pushes it open, flipping the lights on. </p>
<p>Even in this mess he’s found himself in Martin still manages to find some semblance of routine. It’s taken the form of karaoke, which he decided a while ago is not as ridiculous as it seems, and is far more cathartic than stewing in his own fear and anxiety. Considering he’s not keen on therapy at the moment, yelling over an instrumental seemed like an okay compromise. </p>
<p>He grabs a mug from the cabinet above the sink and fills it with water to heat in the microwave. 4am tea is a much different experience than, say, 10am tea, but it brings him the same warmth and satisfaction. Besides, the caffeine isn’t really a problem, it’s not going to be what stops him from sleeping. He figures if he has to live through this he’s going to do it how he wants. This nightly ritual, it’s the only thing he does have control over.</p>
<p>While the water heats up Martin pulls his phone out of the pocket in his hoodie. It’s brand new, Elias said that was the least he could do to compensate for what happened. He’d had it ready for him the day after he returned to the office, so fast that Martin thought it might’ve been premeditated, but he doesn’t have any evidence to back that opinion so for the moment he’s just glad to have a phone at all.</p>
<p>He opens it and searches through the list of songs he typically cycles through. He tends to do 3 or 4 a night, or until he can’t sing anymore, when his voice is completely gone and he’s left with only a mild headache and a ringing in his ears. He picks a few and adds them to a queue, then sets the phone down on the table in front of him and lets the first song start.</p>
<p>He picks up a pen off the counter by the sink, pretending to use it like a microphone. He’d almost say it’s fun to do this every night, but he knows that what he’s doing isn’t really in the traditional spirit of karaoke. It’s more about the expelling of emotions, less so about accuracy or sound quality. </p>
<p>The first one is a warm up, getting himself used to speaking again after what is usually 10 or so hours of silence. He finishes the song and retrieves his now steaming mug from the microwave. He sets it on the table and pulls a tea bag from a box out of another cabinet, this one to the right of the sink. As he moves to steep it in the water the next song comes on, and he decides rather than pausing it he’ll just wait till the song finishes to make his tea. It’ll be fine, it’s not like it’ll get cold or anything. He could always heat it up again.</p>
<p>Not on purpose, but more as a response to the heaviness and aggression of his voice, Martin shuts his eyes when he sings. It helps him forget where he is, and, if only for a moment, exist somewhere other than his body.</p>
<p>He sings and sings, feeling a familiar sting behind his eyelids. He lets himself be open and just exist as a collage of emotions and energy. It’s incredibly freeing, something he cherishes more and more these days.</p>
<p>His voice starts to go and he can hear it distantly, but he continues to sing, to yell and to rid himself of his crippling terror. He yells the lyrics, because he can and because he’s-</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Martin?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The rush of pain that he feels on his chest, he realizes after it happens, comes from the scream he lets run out of him like a trapped animal. His eyes are wide and full of more mortal fear than he’s ever felt in his life as he catapults the pen he’d been holding in the direction of the voice.</p>
<p>He knows who it is, he knew immediately because it couldn’t be anyone else. The pen ricochets off the open door and lands somewhere in the hallway. He thinks hysterically that he’s glad he didn’t bring the corkscrew, or he might’ve actually blinded Jon.</p>
<p>Martin runs to the table to shut off the song at the same time that he hears Jon start to talk to him.</p>
<p>“Martin! It’s me! It’s just me!” He puts his hands up as if Martin is going to run over and beat him to death.</p>
<p>He can’t think of any one coherent thought, instead stringing together a number of broken fragments, “WHY ARE Y-WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? I THOUGHT YOU’D LEFT- OH GOD.” He doesn’t mean to yell, but he also didn’t mean to scream or for Jon to be here in the first place.</p>
<p>He remembers that he probably looks like he just cried his eyes out, which isn’t untrue, but he is in no state of mind to explain himself so he turns around and quickly wipes his face praying that somehow Jon’s obliviousness will favor him. Martin tries to think of something better to say, failing completely and hoping that the humiliation in his voice will be enough for Jon to just leave him alone, “I-I’m sorry! Oh god I really thought you’d left and I was just-”</p>
<p>“It’s 4:15. I assumed you’d be...asleep by now.”</p>
<p>“Yeah well I could say the same for you, couldn’t I?! But here we both are so,” Martin can’t help the way the biting frustration creeps into his tone. He can’t even care enough to think that it’s Jon he’s talking to; he feels so gone still that he’s barely convinced himself that this is happening. He turns back around to face Jon, who’s looking at him like he’s waiting for something to happen.</p>
<p>Martin wants to laugh. He wants to laugh so hard that he chokes or his lungs give out, wants to understand what the hell Jon was thinking when he walked in here, Knowing what was happening, and then having the audacity to wait for a response.</p>
<p>Not knowing what to do or where to go from here Martin holds Jons gaze. He feels naked, physically and mentally. Like Jon is looking inside of him and pulling apart the things that cover him and shield him from the world. For how outwardly kind and emotionally open Martin is there are plenty of things he keeps inside, and when they do manifest in actions he makes sure no one is there to bear witness. He didn’t ask for this.</p>
<p>In a moment of gross selfishness he tells himself that he resents Jon for coming here: for needing to see, needing to know things that aren’t his to uncover.</p>
<p>Eventually Martin gives up, the high of his adrenaline wearing off and giving way to something else that he doesn't need Jon to be present for. He releases the breath he was holding, shaking his head, “Look, I’m-I’m really tired so I’m just gonna go-”</p>
<p>“You were in the middle of making tea, Martin.”</p>
<p>He hears Jon say it, hears the question on his tongue, and ignores it. He moves towards the door, sliding past Jon and out into the hallway, “You can have it,” his voice sounds calm and distant and he thanks god that somehow he managed to say one thing that didn’t completely ruin his image.</p>
<p>He doesn’t look back at Jon, tells himself not to think or feel until he’s back behind a closed door. As much as he tries, Martin can’t help the tiny whine that escapes him right as he’s approaching his room. It's such a pitiful sound and it’s probably too much to hope that Jon somehow didn’t hear it. </p>
<p>He shuts the door behind him as quietly as he can, carefully placing the towels back under the door. Then he turns toward the couch, puts the crook of his arm up to his mouth, and silently screams into it for 10 seconds. And then another 10 seconds. And then another, until he can’t breathe and he pants into his hoodie sleeve.</p>
<p>Maybe it was fine, actually, if Jane Prentiss decided to attack tomorrow, or tonight. The sooner the better.</p>
<p>He half throws his glasses onto the stack of boxes and covers his face with his hands, feeling so seen even in this tiny windowless room. He wants to tear his hair out, to rip his skin off, pull his muscles apart and feel the bones underneath that itch and ache more and more with every day that he spends trapped in his unwelcome isolation.</p>
<p><em> Why this? Why now? Why him? </em>There’s a million questions racing through his skull and they’re all making him so, so angry he can barely keep an awful, hideous cry from tearing itself out of his throat. </p>
<p>For once, he doesn’t want Jon to look at him. In fact, he wants Jon to not look at him for as long as possible, indefinitely even.</p>
<p>It’s not even that he ruined the one good thing Martin created for himself in this hellscape of his life, but that he just...stared at him. He didn’t <em> do </em>anything, didn’t look upset or confused or even laugh. He just looked at Martin and Martin looked back at him. He’s angry because it was the first time Jon ever really saw him, and he was red faced and crying and completely unpresentable. Unprofessional. Awful, awful, awful. </p>
<p>Martin curls himself up onto the couch, bringing his knees up to his chest and hiding his face in his arms as he lets his shame wash over him, sobs racking his entire body. Even after everything, and knowing Jon knows he’s here, he keeps himself completely silent. Through the pounding in his ears he catches the soft footsteps walking back from the break room into Jon’s office, listening to the door as it opens.</p>
<p>There’s a second, a terrifyingly long moment of silence and Martin fears Jon might do something even stupider than he already has. He lives an eternity in that moment, waiting for the footsteps to resume, to grow louder, for a knock on the door, and what is he supposed to do then? What else could Jon possibly want from him, to take from him, when he already feels like his life is barely his own.</p>
<p>But after a hesitation he hears the office door close, and then nothing.</p>
<p>He sits like that for another 30 minutes, just crying and breathing and trying to will himself to do anything else. He feels stupid for reacting like this. It feels juvenile and immature in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long time, but for whatever reason he can’t stop. By the time 5 o’clock rolls around his eyes are dry, not by choice but because there was nothing left in them, nothing else for him to give. As the shaking subsides he's left with a hollow emptiness, the quiet echoes of his frustration reverberating off of the inner walls of his chest cavity until they, too, fall silent.</p>
<p>He does find sleep eventually, around 5:30 when the ibuprofen for his headache kicks in, and his physical and emotional exhaustion beats whatever supernatural grip Jane Prentiss has on his mind. </p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>He knows Jon’s routines, knows where he goes and when because he has to. It makes him easy to avoid and even easier to convince that he really, really doesn’t want to talk.</p>
<p>The next day Martin almost pours two cups of tea on reflex. Almost.</p>
<p>He just needs some time: comforting himself with the knowledge that, when necessary, being invisible is far easier than being seen.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you guys liked it, thanks for reading!</p>
<p>(Also, the song Martin is singing is The Other Side of Paradise by Glass Animals, which doesn't have any importance to the story other than I think it's just a good song to yell to.)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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